


Victims of Adolescence

by creepy_shetan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_shetan/pseuds/creepy_shetan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During one of their brotherly spats, Mycroft sends John photos of a teenage Sherlock in the middle of a particular phase -- photos that Sherlock thought he'd removed from existence.</p><p>(Originally posted 2011/3/20 as a fill for a prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Adolescence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Truthwritaslies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truthwritaslies/gifts).



“Sherlock.”

A wave of a hand, little more than a spasm, was the only response John got when he cautiously walked into the kitchen. His flatmate was staring far too intently at what looked like a matted wad of hair that one would find clogging a drainpipe. While most people would promptly and disgustedly throw such things into the bin without a second glance, Sherlock was dissecting it with a pair of tweezers and carefully placing... _something_ in a petri dish. At least he’d been thoughtful enough to lay a sheet of plastic over the dining table beforehand this time.

“I knew you liked to wear black, but I didn’t think that included cosmetics.”

 _That_ got his attention. Only his eyes moved, but his body had visibly tensed -- well, even more than it had already been, being hunched over his latest experiment.

“Mycroft.”

John nodded, settling himself in against the doorway. He casually pulled out his mobile and began pressing buttons while he spoke, breaking eye contact.

“Who else? Judging by his messages, he’s irritated with you. Although, to be fair, your reaction proves you’re just as...”

John trailed off. Then smirked. His fingers had stilled on his phone. Sherlock abruptly stood, straight as a rod, brows furrowed, the tweezers clattering on the table. 

He waited. Impatiently. His gaze intensified with each passing second.

Finally John broke the silence with a short laugh.

“What. Is. It.”

John looked up, his expression suggesting that he’d forgotten his flatmate was even there. Sherlock’s jaw clenched involuntarily.

“Huh? Oh, um... Mycroft just sent me another photo. The caption says you were sixteen, but I don’t know if that’s a good excuse for, uh, haha...”

Sherlock had had enough of this. He stalked over to John in three strides and snatched the mobile out of his hand. The genuine (and amazingly _human_ ) series of looks that rapidly passed over the detective’s face like fluttering pages of a book threatened to push John completely over the edge. As much as he hated being dragged in the middle of Holmes family drama, he had to admit that on this particular occasion it was highly entertaining from where he stood. He was tempted to send the elder Holmes a thank-you gift.

“I had _burned_ these photos and the negatives _years_ ago,” Sherlock finally managed when his throat relaxed.

Stifling his laughter had closed up John’s throat as well (on top of everything, the man was actually struck _speechless_? the day ought to be marked on his calendar -- or his blog); he paused to clear it before replying.

“Well, obviously your brother had stashed away a copy... and scanned it into a computer.”

Sherlock glanced over to John (his grin was still insufferably wide, but thankfully he’d stopped chuckling) and coolly asked, “How many has he sent you?”

“Three, so far. They’re getting progressively more, uh, _detailed_. My favorite though is the one of you with the bit of blond hair at the temple and the dramatic eye make-up,” he said, gesturing with one hand.

“Where the hell is that on here...?” Sherlock muttered in response, walking off with John’s phone and pacing in front of the couch in the adjoining room as he stabbed at the keys.

John followed and took a seat, settling in like one would before a movie; in fact, part of him wished he had a bowl of popcorn. He couldn’t keep the goofy smile off his face. He’d sometimes wondered about Sherlock the schoolboy, but the occasional passing remark was _nothing_ compared to family photographs. It didn’t matter that his source was only showing them to him out of spite -- the sudden knowledge about this side of his flatmate was more than he could have hoped to piece together by himself over time. Besides, John could really use something like this in his arsenal to tease the man when needed.

“C’mon, you can tell me, Sherlock. Do you still have the dog collars and platform boots hidden away in your closet?”

This time the detective didn’t miss a beat. John had surprised him with the topic initially, but now that he was acclimated, he knew what sort of comments to expect. His steps and keystrokes maintained a steady rhythm as he answered, his voice distracted and somewhat detached, almost as if he were talking about a case rather than a phase of his own life.

“They’re not hidden -- they’re gone. I only have the leather trench coat left; it’s in the hall closet if you really must see it. Unfortunately, my favorite pair of Doc Martens suffered irreparable damage after ten years, eight months, and twelve days. The height of the heel was far below that of platforms, just so you are aware.”

Countless thoughts swarmed in John’s mind during this brief insight into the past fashion choices of Sherlock Holmes. (Where did this candidness come from? He never willingly spoke about his youth before... His _favorite_ pair? How many did he -- _oh god_ , and he didn’t deny the dog collars, either...). However, the only detail his mouth was concerned about was this: “So you have the common sense to throw away a worn-out pair of _shoes_ , but then you think it’s okay to keep a dirty clump of _hair_ and study it on the table where we _eat meals_?”

“Nonsense, John. When has it ever been a _dining_ \-- aha!”

Sherlock abruptly stopped pacing and looked up from the screen with a rather unsettling gleam in his eyes.

John recognized that look. He straightened in his chair, any of the mirth left in his features quickly vanishing. He had a feeling that his role as middleman had suddenly lost any of the appeal it may have gained from this round of sibling rivalry. 

“My brother has wisely chosen to end this blackmail tactic.“

“Sherlock, what -- oi!”

John barely caught his mobile as Sherlock carelessly tossed it over his shoulder and returned to his experiment with a smug smirk.

The original e-mails were gone. As were the copies of the photos that he’d saved onto his phone.

John then checked his outbox. Sherlock had sent Mycroft a text consisting of only five words:  
Long hair and leisure suits.  
SH

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: Sherlock, Sherlock/+John Mycroft,  
> When he was growing up Sherlock went through a goth phase. Mycroft takes great pleasure in E-mailing John pictures of Sherlock looking like the love child of Siouxsie Sioux and Peter Murphy whenever Sherlock annoys him...  
> The theme: Fashion choices  
> Originally posted [here](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/232822.html?thread=47985782#t48199542) (fill #2).  
> I only own the writing.


End file.
